Bad Moon Rising
by Jarjarblinx1
Summary: "Every full moon, a shiver crawled up every spine in Baskerville as they were reminded of their neighbor: the werewolf, the Hound." So far, just a tiny little chapter, a taste of what's to come. Fair warning, there will be werewolves, romance, gore, fluffy stuffs, and maybe more! It'll be a T rating for now, but M just to be safe!
1. Chapter 1

Nothing ever happened. For years, everything had gone exactly the same as it had a hundred years before. Every morning, at precisely 8:30, everyone opened their doors and windows to the new morning. At 9:15, shops were opened and social life officially began at 9:20. Lunch was at an early 1:30 and dinner at a staggeringly late 5:00. When the sun set, shops were closed and all doors and windows were barred. Times ranged based on the setting of the sun, but sunset was always the time to go home.

It might seem odd to a stranger, watching this daily ritual. Everything moved like clockwork, beginning and ending exactly when they were meant to. This was a mandatory thing, an accepted thing, from everyone. For children who yearned to be rebels and stay out past sunset, their parents would advise against it, adding another lock to the door.

Some say that this all began as a safeguard against demons, others as a way to prevent crime. Only a few could remember the truth, the real reason why windows were barred and doors were locked. Every full moon, a shiver crawled up every spine in Baskerville as they were reminded of their neighbor: the werewolf, the Hound.


	2. Chapter 2

John Hamish Watson was shockingly aware of when the murders began. A week after his 31st birthday, Farmer Anderson's sheep were found mutilated in his fields. Four days after his birthday, Governor Lestrade's daughter was found at the edge of town, her throat torn open and her intestines spilling from a large gash in her stomach. The next day, Watson's own sister...

John swallowed, shutting his eyes tight at the memory. He knew that he had never been close to her, especially once she took to frequenting the local pub, but that didn't mean that he loved her any less. Now that she was gone, John felt a ball of guilt settle permanently inside him. All those laughs, those moments, those hugs they could have shared, gone forever.

"Dr. Watson, we have another attack victim." John looked up, shooting a sympathetic smile to his assistant. Molly Hooper was too young to be seeing such violence, such gore, but John was always surprised when she braced her shoulders and dug into her work. Being only 25 years old, she had more guts than John did, and he had seen the horrors of a battlefield.

"If you could just lay them out for me, that would be fantastic."

"If you don't mind, I'd prefer to be seen standing, not lying down like a slab of meat." John's eyes shot up as Molly was pushed aside by a tall, lanky figure. He knew it was somewhat rude of him, but John couldn't help but let his eyes move over every small detail. The man was certainly tall, at least 6 foot, topped with a head of thick, curling onyx-black hair. His skin was a creamy white, like fresh buttermilk, but his eyes were a icy blue-gray color. John felt sure that he could cut himself on those cheekbones, highlighted by the turned-up collar of his Belstaff coat. The man's cupid-bow lips were pressed into a line of indignation and John felt heat wash over him as those sharp eyes did their own analysis. John felt stripped bare, and it made him shiver.

"Napoleonic or Russo-Persian?"

"E-excuse me?"

The man huffed, rubbing an irritated hand over his eyes. "Did you fight in the Napoleonic wars or the Russo-Persian war?"

"I-I...Napoleonic. But how…?"

"You have a tan, a much deeper one for someone that has lived in England all their lives. Your tan lines are in a place indicating a uniform of some kind, and the tan is of a deeper hue, indicating that you were either out in the sun much, or have been a soldier for many years. Based on the wrinkles near your eyes and the amount of gray hairs on your head, you can't be older than 35, so you have not been a soldier for too long. This means you were out in the sun for long periods of time. Your stance is one often used by seafaring men, so you must have been on a ship, explaining the exposure to sunlight. You stared me down, or at least attempted to, meaning that you were in a position of power, a captain perhaps? No, definitely a captain. You are an only child to older parents, so they expected much from you, leading to a career as a captain and then the town's only doctor."

"You are…" John looked at the man with wide eyes. "...amazing."

"I know." The man walked further into the room, plopping himself down gracefully onto the only seat in the room. "I am also bleeding."

"Oh! Yes...of course." John nodded to Molly, giving her a chance to escape from a man that clearly made her uncomfortable. She gave him a grateful smile, scurrying from the room. John, meanwhile, brought his supplies closer and looked at the other man with a clinical eye. "I need to see the injury."

The man shrugged out of his coat, rolling up his shirt sleeve to reveal a large bite covering the milky white skin of a thin forearm. "It's merely a scratch. My transport has faced worse."

"Your transport?" John quirked an eyebrow in curiosity, pouring a small amount of hydrogen peroxide on a cloth.

The man spared a brief glance to look down. "Indeed. It can be quite a problem. My transport is so easily damaged."

"You mean your body, don't you?" John smiled slightly when the man glared up at him. "And you got something wrong."

"What?" The man's eyes moved back and forth, the cogs clearly turning in his head. "I always get something wrong. What did I miss?"

"I'm not an only child. I have a sister. Harriet."

"And yet you only have a portrait of your mother and father. You do not have a good relationship with your sister."

"That is true, but I did have one of her. I put it away when I found her torn to pieces." John cleared his throat, threading a black thread through the needle and slowly pulling it through the smooth skin, pulling the frayed edges together.

"A victim of this Hound that everyone's been talking about?" John nodded. "Impossible. The Hound doesn't exist. I saw the cadavers. All the marks were done with a blade wielded by an unprofessional. He did not know what he was doing, so he made a messy job of it. There are no signs of an attack done by Versipellis, or Lupus. They were killed by a human, not a figment of everyone's imagination.

"Shut up." John pulled the needle through, tying it off at the end and cutting the excess off. "I don't care if the Hound or some psychopath killed her. All I know is that my sister is dead...and whoever killed her is still out there."

"That's why I'm here. Governor Lestrade sent for me from London to come down and prove the existence of the Hound. I intend to show him, you, and every other superstitious person here that there is no such thing."

"Good luck with that. I've lived here my entire life and I remember hearing about the Hound since before I can remember."

"So you know the area well? You know everyone?"

"I do. It's gotten better since I became the only doctor in town."

The man stood up quickly, causing John to jump back in surprise. "Come, John. The game is on!" He rolled his sleeve back down and tugged his coat on, sweeping towards the door like a black hurricane.

"I-I have no idea what you're talking about. And how do you know my name?" John looked after him with wide eyes, his body leaning forward with just a hint of excitement.

"Please do try and keep up. If I knew all that about you, your name is the easy part. That, and your name is carved onto the door." The man pulled the door open, pointing a long finger to where John's name was carved into the dark wood.

"Who are you?"

The man put one hand on the door, looking back with a coy smile. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is room 221B, at the Baker Street Inn." John flushed a deep pink when Sherlock saucily winked at him and closed the door behind him. Now that he was alone and free of that burning gaze, John was free to admit to himself that this man was going to be trouble and more disconcerting was that John was pretty sure he would find himself at the door of room 221B at the Baker Street Inn.


	3. Chapter 3

John glared at the carved numbers in the wooden door. He had waited a week before allowing his curiosity to get the better of him, letting his legs carry him to the Baker Street Inn and up the stairs to room 221B. Now that he was actually here, he felt like a giant fool. This person, this...Sherlock Holmes...had been causing trouble all through town. He had deduced everyone, leading to a sense of chaos that held not been felt since the Hound first appeared hundreds of years ago.

John took a deep breath, raising his hand to knock against the wood. His knuckles had barely brushed the wood before the door was flung open, revealing a very disheveled Sherlock. "How does it feel to live each day with a simple mind?"

"That's not very polite."

"Politeness is dull, so I deleted it."

"You...what?"

"Deleted it. I don't spare space to dull, boring, and useless information. Everything I know is important."

"And social niceties aren't important?"

"Not when society is boring. I find that I'm the only exciting person I know, so why should I be polite to myself? Really John, it makes no sense."

"What makes no sense is that I'm here."

"Yes, a week late! Although I'm not surprised. You were clearly interested in my proposal last we met, yet your pride is obviously strong. A few days would seem like a weakness on your part, but more than a week would make you forgettable. A week shows that you find me pretty unimportant, but not too unimportant to forget."

"How do you do that? It's incredible! Amazing!" John knew he had a big smile on his face, but he didn't care that his admiration was obvious. This man knew everything.

"As you've said. Now, you've wasted enough time so I think we should get back to business, don't you?" Sherlock tugged John into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. "Now, I've found paw prints, clearly canine, but much larger than normal. I do not admit to the Hound's existence yet, for I have yet to see the creature myself."

"Of course not. It's pretty quiet most of the time. It's only during the full moon when the killings start happening."

"A full moon?" Sherlock plopped down into a chair, folding his legs so that the knees were level with his chin. He put his hands together, holding them under his nose.

John looked at him in confusion. "Sherlock?"

"Hush, John! I'm thinking!" Sherlock went still, his eyes getting a far-away look in them.

"Of course." John took this time to look about the room in an effort to better understand the other man. There were books everywhere, in piles waist-high. Strange science equipment covered every bare flat surface, even the tables. In the corner, a music stand was covered with sheet music. John was surprised and yet not to see that the music included some of the most difficult pieces to play. On the lone bookcase, there were little bowls, dead plants and a human skull. John moved closer, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the concoction in the bowls.

"I'm growing different types of molds and bacterias." John turned, giving Sherlock a blank stare.

"May I ask why?"

"To discover optimal growing conditions. I solved a case involving a female newlywed who supposedly died because she had become infected with a certain bacteria while on her honeymoon. I proved that her husband had infected her with a bacteria grown in his hometown. The type she had was a bacteria that flourished in wet, cool climates, nothing like where they had been. He, on their hand, often went to visit a friend in Scotland. It was quite obvious that he had killed her for her inheritance and also so that he might openly court her younger sister. They had been having an affair so he had intended to murder his new bride, get her money and claim the woman he truly wanted but could not have due to her lack of inheritance."

"Do you ever get tired of being so..."

"Amazing?"

John chuckled, picking up the skull. "Of course."

"Please be careful. Yorick is an old friend."

"You named your skull after a character from Hamlet?"

Sherlock smiled, reaching out to take the skull from John's hands and putting it back on the shelf. "So you do know how to read. I'm shocked at how many people don't know how."

"Many people here never got the education you or I did. You must be patient with them."

"Bored."

"What?"

"Bored!" John had only a moment to cover his ears before Sherlock pulled a pistol from his pocket and began firing shots into the wall. After a couple, he handed it to John who gratefully took it and emptied out the remaining bullets.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"The full moon is not for another couple weeks, John! I've revealed every liaison and unpaid debt this town has to offer! Everything from a 1/10 to a 4/10! There's nothing left!"

"Please don't tell me you rate your cases," John sighed.

"It helps later when I decide which ones are important and which ones can be deleted. Do try and keep up, John."

"Of course, I should have known." John dropped down into the other chair, trying his damnedest to ignore the fussing detective. "How's the arm?"

"What?"

"Your arm? The bite?"

"It got infected so I had to fix it."

"Why didn't you come to me?! I'm a bloody doctor!"

"I was letting you have your week. Besides, I was curious about what kinds of antibiotics I could create on my own."

"You're impossible," John groaned, sending an exhausted smile up towards the other man. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Often, and usually accompanied with other words like 'freak' and 'psychopath'."

John looked up at Sherlock, frowning. "They really call you that?"

"Yes, but if they did their research, they'd see I'm clearly a high-functioning sociopath. There's an obvious difference."

John chuckled, stretching his back to release some tension he didn't even realize he had. "How are you not married, Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze, looking everywhere but at John. "I feel the need to tell you that I do not want a relationship of any kind as I am married to my work..."

"Hold on, I...I don't...you don't think..." John blushed, slumping down in the chair. "I'm not like that. I like women. I want to be with a woman, not..."

"Good! Then we can get back to the game! Has this Hound ever killed before?"

"Centuries ago, when we were still unfamiliar with it. Then nothing until recently."

"So he's new to this." Sherlock sat down again in what John had already decided was his "thinking pose." "Perhaps a copycat of that earlier killer. This could only be so if there were records of those killings. Such records would require a certain level of power to gain access to, and then there's te fact that the individual would have to know how to read. A privileged individual then."

"You've narrowed it down significantly. Not many people in town know how because they never had the time or the wealth."

"Then the killer must be one of them. Who in this town has such an advantage?"

"My sister, my father, and myself. Governor Lestrade can, a little. And then there's you."

"It cannot be myself, as I have been in London since a few days ago."

"What about me? Do you think it could be me?"

Sherlock looked up, pinning John to the spot with those steely eyes. After a minute-long eternity, Sherlock shook his head. "I think not. You had obvious sentiment for your sister, making it impossible to do such a crime against her person."

"That leaves my father, Sherlock." John gave the detective a look, silently challenging him to make te accusation.

"You can out that glare away, John. I do not believe it was him on the same grounds as the ones for why I discounted you." Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh, stretching his long legs out and slumping down in his own chair. "I can make no more guesses until I see a new body or the creature itself."

"So you're staying in town then?"

"It would seem so. This Hound is interesting to me...among other things."

John felt a shiver crawl up his spine at the way Sherlock's deep baritone caressed over the words. He found himself hoping that maybe he was one of the other things.

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**I have to say, I'm pretty excited about this story. I have no idea where I'm gonna go with it, but that's the way it is! Please leave a review, favorite, follow, whatever makes you happy because when you guys are happy, I'm happy :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry this update is so short!**

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"John!" The doctor leapt up from his bed, running on pure instincts. He stumbled down the hall to Sherlock's room, shoving the door open.

"Sherlock?" John mumbled, dragging a hand over his eyes in exhausted frustration. "There better be a damn good reason why you've woken me up at this ungodly hour."

"All my reasons are good, John, do keep up. I need your assistance." Sherlock's voice was mumbled and John cracked his eyes open. He almost wished he hadn't.

"Sherlock, I invited you to stay with me, in my own house. Please do me the courtesy of explaining why there is a corpse in that bed and you're covered in blood."

"I was observing the blood spatter that occurs when the throat and stomach are slit."

"That's a week-old cadaver."

"Really? How observant you are, John," Sherlock mumbled sarcastically.

"Get rid of it, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is not your housekeeper."

"Why not? She's yours."

"Yes, but at least I try and make her life a little easier. I don't leave severed heads on the table or pin fingers to the front door."

"Everything I do has a purpose, John. You know that."

"Sherlock…" John sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "At least promise me this will be gone by morning, _by your own hands_. If Mrs. Hudson has to clean this up, I'll be very upset with you."

Sherlock's eyes widened briefly, but then slipped back into the cold mask of indifference. John couldn't be sure, but it had almost looked like the thought of John's anger had...frightened the detective. "Yes, sir."

"I mean it, Sherlock. I don't want to be angry with you, but I won't have you taking advantage of Mrs. Hudson, after she's been so kind to you."

"She gives me food and drink that I do not need. It's a waste."

"It's a _kindness_, Sherlock! If we didn't make sure you were fed, you'd probably end up dead!" John shook his head. "Why exactly did you need to know about blood spatter?"

"There were faint traces of blood on the victim's bodies. Based on the projection, the blow would have come from the victim's left side and been dragged across. in all likelihood, the victim would spin from the force, landing on their knees. Did you not notice the pre-mortem bruising? A blade could have easily been used for the stomach wounds, but not the throat. I've tried every blade I have and I cannot seem to recreate it."

"You do not have claws or fangs, Sherlock."

"Don't you start with that," Sherlock mumbled, his voice like thunder. He glared at John as he paced like a caged animal, taking precisely 2 seconds to get from one side of the room to the other. "There is no Hound, John. There never was."

"I don't know how things are done in London, Sherlock, but I can't agree with you, not completely. I've seen things, things I doubt even you could explain. And this thing has always been a part of our lives. Children learn about it from the moment they can walk and those children go on to teach their own children to beware. You are questioning this town's very identity, Sherlock. This is Baskerville, and it has always had the Hound."

"Aren't you a little old to still be believing in fairy tales, John?"

"Aren't you a little too young to be so condescending?"

"Touché," Sherlock chuckled, throwing the knife in his hand to become deeply embedded in the opposite wall. "The full moon is tomorrow night, John. I need to find where this thing stays, hopefully catch him before he kills someone else."

John gave Sherlock a look, shaking his head again. "You want there to be another body, Sherlock. You're an awful liar."

"Very good, John. Pretty soon you'll be almost good."

"Clean this up and then go to sleep, Sherlock. No violin, no yelling, no slicing up cadavers. I want you to _sleep_."

"Yes, sir." John shivered at the smooth tone and the way those silvery gray eyes looked at him. Once he closed the door, he couldn't help but wonder if those eyes could even glow in the shadowy darkness of the room.

"He's taking too long." Sherlock paced back and forth, his hands steepled under his chin.

John had long since given up following the taller man with his eyes, instead choosing to look over medical reports from the past victims. "Who is?"

"The murderer! The moon has been up for 4 hours, 6 minutes and 35 seconds, and no sign of a corpse!"

"You're a very morbid individual, Sherlock. Everyone here would be grateful if this night went without a casualty. I...we have had enough of loved ones being taken away. So you'll have to excuse me if I don't hate in your desire for death."

Sherlock huffed, flopping to his knees and lying face down on the floor. "How can you be so calm about this? I watched everyone scatter like ants to prepare and you...you made tea!"

"I know my father is safe and Mrs. Hudson has been given a room for the night. What else is there for me to worry about? The Hound killed my sister. He can have me for all I care." John chuckled, dropping his papers on the table next to his chair. "Not like anyone would really miss _me_. They'd miss the heir, the tenant, the doctor, but not _me._"

Sherlock gave John a strange look. "But...I..."

"Are you trying to tell me that you'd miss me?"

"Of course not." Sherlock frowned, looking away like a pouting child. "I prefer being alone. Alone protects me."

"Friends protect people, Sherlock. I think we're friends, so I'll just have to make sure to live. Who else would bother to make sure you don't kill yourself."

"If you must," Sherlock sighed, but propped his head up on his hand with a contented smile.

"You like me, you sod. I'm the only one who can stand you."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson for putting up with the local freak."

"You know that's not what I mean. I put up with the only consulting detective in the world." John smiled down at Sherlock, nudging the man's head with his foot. "A brilliant, amazing, incredibly irritating genius."

"You're acting like a wife, John. People might talk."

"Do they do anything else?" Sherlock moved so that he could lay his head on John's lap. "Why would you want to be my friend?"

"Because you're like me. Unique, regarded as a bit of an oddity."

"How are you odd? You seem so normal."

"I went to medical school, I fought in wars and became a captain even though I was only the ship's doctor. I can read and write and in a town where most forsake education for their fields. I now spend time helping you solve this crime. I clean up after you, I feed you. Hell, I've even had to wash you on occasion! I'm a single man, one and thirty with no marriage prospects. I'm odd, Sherlock, no doubt about it."

"Then we're the perfect pair." Sherlock closed his eyes, nudging against John's hands. John took the hint, moving his hand to run his fingers through the dark hair. Sherlock sighed, feeling his body grow weak. "John...my transport..."

"Go to sleep, Sherlock. I think you deserve a few hours."

"I don't...need..." Under John's hands, the doctor felt Sherlock go still, his muscles relaxing and the chest moving with slow, steady breaths. John leaned back with a fond smile, his fingers never stopping.

"I love you, you hopeless sociopath. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, I love you, I love you."

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**Oh my goodness, I have been so stressed and busy with university, so I'm taking my Thanksgiving break and using it to get some R&R before finals. Of course, R&R includes writing! **

**Please, just click that little review button down there and tell me what you think so far. Like it, hate it, think I should change some things? Go ahead, just click that button and let me know! Reviews inspire me to keep updating :)**


	5. Chapter 5

John silently slid the teacup across the table towards Sherlock, silently commanding the other man to drink. Sherlock ignored the cup, looking anxiously at the window. "It's sunset."

"Yes it is, Sherlock."

"I want to go outside."

"You can't." John crossed his legs, taking a sip from his own cup. "I'd worry about you."

"You'd not. Come on, five minutes! I can find out so much if I'm out when he is."

"You'll sit here and wait until sunrise, like a normal person," John chuckled. He reached out under the table to give Sherlock's knee a squeeze. "You're not going to listen to me though, are you? You rarely ever do."

Sherlock looked down at the hand on his knee with shock before slowly covering it with one of his own. "Come with me."

"No. I want to be here to welcome you back once you're five minutes are up. You will be back after five minutes...right?"

"Not ten?"

"Five."

"Seven?"

"Five."

"Six?"

"If you keep asking, I'll lower the time."

"Ten?"

"Four."

"Alright, five."

"Good boy." John smiled, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze before pulling his hand away. Sherlock reluctantly released John's hand, but he continued to silently stare down at where their hands had been. After a few minutes, John looked up, giving his friend a puzzled look. "Sherlock?"

"Did you ever bother to look for a wife?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did you ever bother? I mean...did you ever like someone enough to want to spend the rest of your life with them?"

"No, Sherlock. Like you, I was married to my work."

"And now?"

"I have my work and you to take care of. I don't have time for a wife."

"You should consider it. Marriage. You can't spend the rest of your life taking care of me."

"What?" John looked at him with wide eyes. He felt a large lump form in his throat and the room suddenly felt so cold.

"Once this case is solved, I'm going home, to London. That's where I'm needed. The city would crumble and burn without me. But you...you're meant to stay here, in Baskerville. You're meant to get married and have children and whatever else people consider appropriate."

"But...what about...this?" John waved his hand between the both of them.

"I don't understand."

"Our relationship!"

"John, you know that..."

"I know! I mean our partnership! Our friendship! Are you saying that those things are temporary?"

"Of course. All relationships are temporary. It was only a matter of time before this one was meant to end."

"You..." John could feel the tears in his eyes, but he would be damned if he shed one. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes I do. I knew what was going to happen once the case was solved. I had hopes that you would be mildly intelligent and also understand."

"But...but I..." John couldn't breath. He felt like his heart was shattering inside him, and the one person who could heal it was the one breaking it. "I thought..."

"Leave the thinking to me, John. I always was better at it than you. You can make the tea and provide me with the reports I need."

"So that's...that's all I am to you?_ A tea server and an informant_?!"

"Please lower your voice, John. You're always irritating when you yell."

"I have a good reason to yell! I thought we were friends, Sherlock. Partners at the very _least_! Now I'm being told that I'm only good for serving tea and giving you reports! Not only that, but once the case is finished, I can expect to be abandoned! How do you think that makes me feel, Sherlock? Do you have any idea in that cold heart of yours?"

"John, it's ok. It's alright now."

"No it's not!" John threw his hands up in the air, pushing his chair back. He stormed over to the doorway, looking back at Sherlock. "Friends protect people, Sherlock. It's no wonder you don't have any. You had me, and now you've proven that you can hurt me worse than any friend."

"John..." Sherlock quickly stood up but John had already slammed the door shut and run upstairs to his room. He slammed the door and felt his knees give out. He slid down the wood, collapsing onto the floor. Now that he was safe and away from those seductive gray eyes, he could let his tears fall freely. He wanted to sob and scream and yell, but he couldn't seem to force a sound past his lips. All his body could give him was more tears.

John opened his eyes, first noticing how the morning sun's light had made a small golden puddle on his floor. He looked up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, noting unpleasantly that they were also extremely puffy from the shed tears. He hadn't heard Sherlock come up, so he assumed the wanker was still downstairs, waiting for his tea. John was determined to only make enough for a single cup.

He went downstairs, noticing that it was strangely quiet considering that Sherlock would probably be awake, as usual. He was shocked to see that there was a severe lack of destruction, experiments, cadavers and Sherlock. A part of him was glad that he could avoid any unpleasantness about last night, but he found that worry quickly took over. Where was he? Had he gone out last night? Oh God, would John discover that Sherlock was the new casualty? John realized a little while later that he had begun pacing, almost subconsciously. He was angry at the detective, no doubt about it, but he still considered himself to be Sherlock's friend.

"John..." John looked up anxiously, recognizing the voice. He was alive. Sherlock was alive, thank God. "John..." Why was his voice so weak? Was he feeling guilty? John ran to the door and gasped loudly. Sherlock stood in the doorway, completely naked and covered in blood. The great Sherlock Holmes also looked terrified. "John...what happened last night?"

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**I'm so sorry for this short chapter, but that's just the way this story wanted to be formatted lol The next chapter will be an apology since it's significantly longer than this one!**

**Please, reviews are the lifeblood of this story. Even just one is enough to inspire :)**

**Happy Thanksgiving!**


	6. Chapter 6

"What happened last night?" John pulled Sherlock inside, holding the larger body close to his. Even though the day was warm, Sherlock shivered as violently as if he had spent the night in a snowstorm. John hushed him, pulling the blanket off the back of his chair and wrapping Sherlock in it. The detective gasped at the touch but tugged the blanket closer, wrapping it tightly around himself.

"What do you remember, Sherlock?"

"You getting angry with me, and then...I went outside..."

"So you spent the night outside? But then why are you covered in blood?"

"I don't know. I remember...nothing...after leaving."

"Alright. It's alright, Sherlock. Come on, come sit down." John led Sherlock like a frightened child, exerting little force to push him down onto the chair. "I'm going to make tea, and you're going to drink it, yes?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes staring blankly in front of him, recalling shadow-filled nightmares. John sighed, putting a kettle of water on to boil. Sherlock had always been a bit odd, but this was a bit much, even for him. He would have missed the knock on the door except for Sherlock's body jumping slightly and his eyes widening in panic. "Stay, Sherlock. You stay there." John held a hand out, commanding him to obey. John opened the door, making sure to keep a blood-covered Sherlock hidden. "Ah, Governor Lestrade! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning?"

"There's been another murder, John."

"Oh god, no..."

"I'm afraid so. John..."

"Who...?"

"John...just remember that we're here for you."

"Who was it?"

"Don't get upset."

"Who was it, damn you?!"

"Molly. The Hound killed Molly, John." John gasped, leaning heavily against the door. His vision was quickly turning black and he felt like he could be sick.

"Molly? Molly's dead?"

"Yes, John. I know how fond you were of her."

"Fond?! Damn it Lestrade, I almost..."

"The engagement ended years ago, John. I think she forgave you."

"But now...I-I'll never know for sure."

"I'm sorry, John." The elderly man put a comforting hand on John's shoulder. "I came to ask if Sherlock would look into it."

"We'll be there in a few minutes, Lestrade."

"John..."

"Gregory, she was my friend, my partner! I think I owe her more than just leaving her body to strangers!"

"Don't force yourself, John."

"I'm not. She was brave then, I can be brave now. At least brave enough to wait and mourn in privacy."

"If you insist." Lestrade removed his hand, putting it back in his pocket. He looked up at the sky with a wistful smile. "Today was supposed to be a beautiful day. How quickly the sunshine and clear skies seem so inappropriate."

"They've always been inappropriate, ever since the Hound was born." John looked down at his feet, feeling very unsociable. "Good day, Lestrade."

Lestrade nodded, leaving John alone. As soon as the Governor was out of sight, John silently shut the door with numb fingers. Molly was dead. Lovely, sweet, kind Molly. Molly who always had a kind word. Moly who loved him even though he had broken their engagement. It was his sister all over again...

"John?" John looked up, his body reflexively moving to care for the only person he had left.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"You did like her, didn't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your heart rate picked up when you heard about her."

"Of course! I was upset!"

"But it picked up even more when you mentioned your engagement. Your heart was beating its fastest then."

"What's your point, Sherlock?"

"My point is that you did love. This means you'll be able to let me go."

"Not this again," John groaned, leaning against the wall. "Why are you trying to make me hate you?"

"Because you should. I never asked you to like me."

"No one asks to be liked, Sherlock. It just happens."

"Such _sentiment_." Sherlock said the word as if it was something distasteful that he was desperate to get off his tongue."I have no place for it."

"Then I suppose I'll just have to hold onto it for you."

"I'd prefer to not leave you with something so pointless once I leave."

"Sherlock, shut up." John bowed his head, feeling like he now had the weight of the world on his shoulders. "You're so determined to leave me, so what I feel is of no concern of yours. Until you leave, as you often like to remind me, I'm going to continue taking care of you so that you'll be in good condition for Lady London."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but closed it at the look on John's face. He saw that the doctor suddenly looked like he was 90, all the woes of the world swimming inside those eyes. Sherlock stood up slowly and approached the other man just as slowly, giving John time to move. When he was standing in front of John, Sherlock raised a hand and hesitantly cupped John's cheek. "John...stay with me tonight."

John chuckled weakly, looking away. "Don't joke. It's not funny."

"I'm not. You should know that I never joke. I mean it, John. Come to my room tonight."

"Sherlock, please..." John shut his eyes tightly, leaning into the hand on his cheek before it would undoubtedly be pulled away. "This is cruel."

"Just think it over. I'll go clean myself up then we'll go see...the body. Think it over then. No matter what you decide, my door will be unlocked tonight." Sherlock gave John's cheekbone a gentle swipe with his thumb before pulling away to go wash the blood off. John let him go, but his fingers itched to reach out and pull Sherlock close. He took in a shaky breath, fighting to hold himself up on jelly-like legs.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Tonight...make me forget. Let me know only you."

"Yes, John."

"Something's different about her, Sherlock. It's so much more…" John moved his hands as if he could pull the word from the air.

"Messy? Of course. Your killer has an apprentice, or else he has just gotten careless. Look at the way the jugular has been torn. She was very much alive when the killer went after her. See these jagged marks along here? She was moving. And a different knife was used, one with a more jagged edge. That, plus her struggles made the wound very messy, as you would put it."

"But Sherlock, with the other ones...they were just…"

"Yes, it seems you're killer actually tried to consume Miss Hooper. The stomach is torn open and it seems that the…" Sherlock leaned closer, lifting the upper flap of skin. "...kidney, heart and the right lung are missing, possibly consumed or kept as a trophy. In his haste, he snapped all of the thoracic bones. Certainly a very unorganized operation." Sherlock stood up quickly, clapping his hands. "What an interesting man this Hound is! He's changed the game, John! Something about her warranted a different death!"

"Sherlock!" The detective turned around, shrugging when John glared at him. "Timing, Sherlock."

"John, this changes everything!"

"This changes nothing. She's dead, Sherlock. Have some respect, at least for a few days. She deserves more than to be overlooked like one of your finished experiments!"

"John, not now."

"Yes, now. I do not condone this kind of behavior, Sherlock. You will learn to have some respect for these people, because that's what they are."

"_Were_. They were human. Now they're corpses,"

"Shut up, or I will never forgive you." Sherlock opened his mouth but then closed it with a pout. He crossed his arms and glared down at the ground. John felt a small sense of guilt that he had lashed out at the detective, but Sherlock needed to understand. "Let's go home, Sherlock. I'm suddenly feeling very...tired." He was disheartened at Sherlock's silence, so he quickly gave the detective an escape route. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson might not have made my bed so I might sleep elsewhere…"

"Mrs. Hudson made your bed, John. It's ready and waiting for you to crawl into it and roll around...as you so enjoy doing," Sherlock whispered. John took a deep breath, feeling a burn come to his cheeks. Damn it, he was surely blushing! He stood, brushing the dirt off his pants.

"Then come. Let us return so I might see how well my bed has been made." John gave Sherlock a coy look as he passed, his fingers lightly brushing over Sherlock's long ones. Sherlock looked away, but his fingers briefly tangled with John's, giving the doctor a small sense of hope.

John had gone through five cups of tea, anxiously fighting to stir up some had gone upstairs an hour earlier and John had heard the severe lack of a door being locked. He desperately wanted to go upstairs, to push open that door, to take and thrust and caress and kiss. He wanted to hold and cherish and keep for the rest of his life. In his heart, he had dreamed of silvery gray eyes looking at him with love, but his head knew that this would never be. Sherlock planned to leave, to solve this crime and then abandon John and Baskerville without a backwards glance. He took a deep breath, downing the rest of his tea. If Sherlock wanted to leave, then this would perhaps be the only chance John would ever have. Before he even realized that he had stood, he was in front of Sherlock's door, his hand poised to knock. Now that he was here, his hand trembled. "Come in, John. The bed has been made to your liking." John took a deep breath, reaching down to click the latch and push the door open. His eyes slowly moved up and he felt the air leave his body at the sight.

Sherlock lay back in bed, his dressing gown spread out like satin wings. He wore a form-fitting pair of pants and a purple shirt that seemed almost like a second skin on the detective. Sherlock sat up on his elbows, his eyes raking over John's body. "Will you come to bed, John?"

"S-Sherlock...please, don't."

"What are you talking about, John? What do you not want me to do?"

"Don't...toy with me, Sherlock. You must know...surely you must know that I...feel sentiment for you."

"I know, John. That's why for tonight and tonight only, I will indulge you and let you do whatever you want. I admit that I too am also curious about...things like that."

"Things like making love?"

Sherlock nodded. "I have often heard it spoken about, but I have never quite understood why people feel the need to lose control, all for a brief moment of pleasure."

"So what's changed?"

Sherlock sat up, slowly pulling himself closer to John until they were face to face and Sherlock was only a breath away. John felt the detective's breath on his lips and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the silvery whirlpools looking back at him. "I came to Baskerville. Suddenly, I feel this strong...desire."

"Please...don't destroy me completely."

"I make no promises, Dr. Watson. What I can promise is that I will analyze your body as thoroughly as I analyze my world."

John felt his knees go weak and he closed the distance between them, taking his first deep kiss from this man. His fingers tangled in those inky curls and tugged lightly. "M-my first kiss."

"Now then, Dr. Watson, let us begin the experiment."

John had never felt so content than he did in that moment. He and Sherlock had done so much. He knew that he had been analyzed so thoroughly that the detective surely knew everything about him, down to the innermost secrets of his heart. He stretched an arm out, seeking to pull Sherlock closer once more, but froze when he felt only cold sheets. He sat up, looking around in confusion. "Sherlock?" He listened closely, but there was only silence and the faint chirping of the early-morning birds. He stood up with shaky legs and wrapped himself in Sherlock's dressing gown. "Sherlock?"

"John...please help me." John almost tripped on the body at the base of the stairs. He stepped over Sherlock's legs, looking down at him in horror.

"Sherlock, this blood…"

"I don't remember what happened last night." Sherlock grabbed onto John's arm, holding him close. "Please don't let me go."

"Never. You're safe now, my dear one." John wrapped his arms and the edges of the overly large dressing gown around Sherlock's naked, blood-covered body. He nuzzled against Sherlock's hair, ignoring the blood that had crusted into the strands, and gave him a gentle kiss. "You're safe."


End file.
